


Counting Sheep

by fanfictiongreenirises



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [18]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Deprivation, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne Bonding, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne Get Along, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Translation Available, Worried Batfamily (DCU), i can't believe there are such specific tags for these two, no beta we type like lois lane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: Tim has never felt more awake in his life.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622032
Comments: 62
Kudos: 690





	Counting Sheep

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [一只羊，两只羊，三只羊](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25699645) by [forest_mumu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forest_mumu/pseuds/forest_mumu)



> For the "Sleep Deprivation" square on my Batman Bingo card!! For anon on tumblr~
> 
> Warnings: there’s a mention of taking way too many sedatives to help sleep and a mention of potential ODing. nothing major though
> 
> I now have a soft spot for Tim and Damian bonding and it rly shows ;~; for max enjoyment don't think about when this takes place or anything just roll with it
> 
> Disclaimer: really really don't own DC

THIS FANFICTION IS HOSTED ON **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN** , WHERE YOU CAN READ IT FOR **FREE**. IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON A DIFFERENT WEBSITE, IT WAS POSTED THERE **WITHOUT** THE AUTHOR’S CONSENT.

“Tim.” When Tim didn’t look up, Bruce tried again. “ _Tim._ ”

Tim lifted his head, eyes slowly moving from the laptop screen to Bruce’s face. He didn’t have the look of someone who’d already been up for more than a day, but Bruce knew that one could get used to almost anything if they did it long enough. And god knew that Tim was accustomed to staying awake far beyond what a normal person should be able to function after.

“Yeah, Bruce?” he said.

Or maybe Tim had actually managed to sleep properly for once. Instead of questioning him, Bruce stepped into the room and came to awkwardly stand at Tim’s shoulder. It reminded Tim of every teacher he’d had in high school who hadn’t understood the meaning of a personal space bubble.

“What’re you working on?” Bruce asked. He wasn’t the type to obtrusively look through tabs – he had much more sophisticated means of prying, if he wanted to.

Tim shrugged. “Nothing work related, for once,” he said. “Kon had something he wanted me to look into. All the cases I had are wrapping up.”

Not that that would last for long. It was strange, really, to have a whole afternoon to himself.

Bruce gave a little hum of approval, squeezing Tim’s shoulder.

“Was there anything you needed?” Tim asked, when it was clear that Bruce wasn’t going to say anything.

Bruce paused. He’d finally caught a glimpse of the game Tim had open in front of him, it seemed, and was eyeing the strewn bits of the policemen that Tim’s GTA character had just shot. The four stars blinked on the top right corner of the screen.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” he said finally.

“I’m doing great,” Tim said. It was true, for once – since that case of his the previous day, he’d been riding on some sort of high that didn’t seem to be going down anytime soon.

Bruce didn’t seem to believe him. “Tim,” he said, face turning serious. “They had you for two days. Have you slept since?”

Tim turned to look at him. “I’m not tired,” he said, in a calm and rational voice.

Bruce frowned. “It’s better to sleep now, while you still have some energy, than to sleep because you’ve crashed.”

Tim let out a sigh worthy of a twelve-year-old. “B, I can’t sleep if I’m not tired. It doesn’t work like that. I’ll sleep when my body tells me to.”

* * *

Tim had been completely ready to keep his word, but the thing was that his body _didn’t_ tell him to. The last time he’d slept for more than an hour was six days ago.

Damian halted in the doorway when he came down for breakfast. “Drake,” he said slowly. “What’re you doing here?”

Tim would normally have answered that with either something philosophical or something downright scathing, but having broken into Dick’s secret stash of liquorice, combined with a mug of coffee, he was riding a pleasant combination of caffeine and sugar.

“Reheating waffles,” he said, watching as the store-bought, sugar-crusted waffles spun in the microwave. Alfred would have a coronary if he saw it in the Manor, but Alfred had left to go grocery shopping.

Damian scowled. “What’re you doing _awake_?” he repeated. Tim hadn’t known it was possible to aggressively open fridge doors until he’d met Damian. “Father said we weren’t to disturb you.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Why would Bruce think I slept last night?” he asked.

The microwave finally beeped at him, and he opened the door, using the sleeves of his hoodie as ovenmitts as he brought the plate over to the countertop.

Damian eyed the waffles. “This isn’t food,” he said. It was phrased more as a question than a statement. In his hands was a tub of yoghurt and a bowl of sliced fruit.

Tim shrugged. “Grass is food,” he said, stealing a handful of strawberries and mango pieces from the bowl.

“It is for _Batcow_. If you keep eating,” Damian wrinkled his nose, “ _that_ , your night career will be over in a day.”

Tim swung his legs, placing a blueberry in each hole of the waffle before pouring a river of maple syrup over it. “Then why haven’t you been making me stuff myself with sugar and carbs this whole time instead of stabbing me?” he said. “Hey, pass me the whipped cream.”

Damian handed it over gingerly, as though he thought he might catch sugar cooties from just holding something that Tim was going to put on the waffles. He watched in silent judgement as Tim first sprayed a decent mouthful directly into his mouth, and then over the maple syrup. He was so glad he’d had the foresight to use a bigger plate.

Then he glanced at Damian, who was seated in the farthest barstool from him and still eating his yoghurt. “Want some?” he asked, shaking the can at him.

Damian glared at him. “That’s unhygienic,” he said.

Had this been any other day, and Tim hadn’t been so incredibly hyped up on the sheer amount of sugar he was shovelling into his body, he probably would’ve let it go and maybe moved into another room.

Instead, he hummed a little. “It’s a thing,” he told Damian, mouth half full. “Eating it straight.” He shook it again. “Sure you don’t want some?”

Damian’s frown increased, but he didn’t say no. Tim put the plate down beside him on the counter. He went to hop down, but the moment his feet touched the ground, it was like he’d forgotten how to stand. His legs folded under him, and he went down with flailing arms.

_“Drake?”_

Tim blinked up at Damian standing in front of him, looking absolutely furious. “Huh,” he said, getting up with only a little wobble. “That was weird.”

The whipped cream was no longer in his hand. Tim spotted it on the ground, bending to pick it up. When he looked back at Damian, he saw that the boy had his phone out and was typing something furiously.

Tim flicked his ear. Damian didn’t even look up as he punched Tim’s stomach, hands only pausing for a moment. And yet, the hit wasn’t as hard as he knew it would’ve normally been.

“You were the one who said you wanted to try it,” Tim told him, hoisting himself up onto a seat this time. The whipped cream atop his waffles was beginning to droop. “Can’t leave it out for too long or it’ll go off.”

“Fine,” Damian said, pocketing his phone. “What’s the procedure for this?”

Tim snorted, almost choking on the massive bite he’d just taken. He swallowed painfully before he spoke. “Open your mouth and tilt your head back.”

Damian did so, but not before commenting about looking stupid. Tim shook the cannister before aiming it into his mouth, filling it until there was a mountain of whipped cream rising out.

“Now eat it,” Tim said.

Damian closed his mouth, a look of bewilderment passing his face. His cheeks puffed out as he tried to stop himself from swallowing the entire thing in one go. He looked like a chipmunk. 

Tim finished up the first waffle as he watched with distant curiosity. The maple syrup had seeped into the second one, which was exactly what he’d wanted. Now if he could only find the caramel topping that Cass had left the last time they’d had a movie night.

“That wasn’t…unpleasant,” Damian allowed. “But not good enough to warrant _that_.” He nodded to Tim’s plate.

Before Tim could defend his culinary masterpiece, Damian turned and left the kitchen. It was probably a good thing – despite this being probably the longest time they’d spent in a room alone without fighting, it didn’t mean it would last.

* * *

Tim found out that night exactly what Damian had been typing, because apparently the kid had been ratting him out to Dick, of all people. Backup arrived three hours before patrol in the form of Dick carrying an overnight bag and his favourite yoga mat into Tim’s room.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you,” Tim began, watching as Dick cleared the floor with methodical sweeps of his feet, “but why’re you here? And what’re you doing?”

“Damian messaged,” Dick said, shaking one of Tim’s socks off his foot. He shot Tim a worried look. “Said something about you not having slept since before you got kidnapped.” Dick opened his mouth, before closing it again, as though he’d changed his mind about something he’d been meaning to say, instead telling Tim, “So I figured we’d do some relaxing yoga.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up as Dick scrolled through his phone, connecting it to Tim’s speaker system. “You can tell Damian he’s a fucking tattletale. And I’m _fine_. My legs just forgot how to function for a second.”

“But when was the last time you slept properly?” Dick was now rooting through Tim’s closet, trying to look for appropriate clothing for Tim. “Aha!”

Tim caught the loose sweatpants Dick tossed at him. “Are you serious?” he said, voice pitching up to almost a whine. “Dick, c’mon. Not everyone does _yoga_ to relax.”

Music started up, something funky with a beat. Tim typically meditated to relax, but even he knew that this wasn’t usually considered _calming_ music.

“We gotta work ourselves down, Timbo,” Dick told him, catching the look that passed his face. “We can’t just start with the chill music.”

Tim let out a dramatic sigh before taking the pants into the bathroom to get changed. When he emerged, Dick had spread a bunch of fake candles around the room – had he always had them, Tim wondered, or did he go out and buy them just for this? – and turned off all the lights bar one lamp that sat by the door.

Tim plopped down on the mat beside Dick. “Okay, go for it,” he said. “But if I sleep through patrol, you’re explaining it to Bruce.”

Dick shot him a strange look. “Bruce told me he’d talked to you yesterday about taking tonight off.”

Tim blinked, because Bruce had. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that. “Slipped my mind, I guess,” he said, avoiding looking Dick in the eye. In the dim lighting, it wasn’t difficult. “You know me. Never know what day it is.”

Dick didn’t say anything, instead instructing Tim with both words and a demonstration. Soon, Tim found himself in a strangely curled position, and he felt all stretched out, but nowhere near falling asleep. His head was buzzing.

_Dick_ , on the other hand, was probably nearing it, with eyelids drooping. Tim couldn’t imagine how anyone could fall asleep positioned as they were – Dick worse than him, being more flexible and accustomed to regular yoga.

“Dick?” he said quietly.

Dick hummed in response. His eyes were closed. Tim would normally let him rest, but he needed to know how to get out of this pretzel he was currently in.

“Can you untangle me?” he said in a low voice.

Dick lifted his head, yawning. “You tired yet?” he asked.

Tim hesitated. “Yeah, so tired,” he lied.

Dick’s grin was small but real.

In the end, Dick crashed in Tim’s bed, and Tim curled up next to him trying his damndest to sleep but completely unable to.

* * *

Tim hadn’t been able to sleep for over a week, and now he _knew_ something was wrong. He wasn’t tired: there was no yawning, no eyes drooping shut. But his mind was fuzzy. He couldn’t hold onto anything, couldn’t maintain a conversation. His appetite had half disappeared, and his coordination was practically non-existent.

The longest a human being had gone without sleep for was eleven days, the last time he’d checked. He didn’t want to know what would happen to him if he went that long. A study on rats showed that they died.

But even that fear felt distant, because his mind was an absolute haze where nothing felt like it had concrete consequences. It was sheer dumb luck, really, that patrol was only a few muggings here and there. It was as if Gotham had seen Tim’s plight and decided to take pity on him.

The rest of the family didn’t know about Tim’s sleeping – or lack thereof – because he was doing a rather fantastic job of lying and pretending to be busy with digging up information for the team. He _was_ busy, but not enough to be working as much as he appeared to be.

But the fact that Tim had become increasingly moody as time went on didn’t help him in the slightest. He snapped at Alfred for something he couldn’t even remember five seconds later. He was sharp with Cass when she asked him how he was doing, eyes narrowing at his face through the video call. Damian had been avoiding him ever since he’d ripped into the kid about texting Dick.

So it was fitting that it was Bruce who would be the final straw that sent everything crashing.

“Tim,” Bruce said. “It’s four in the morning. C’mon, kiddo.”

“In a minute,” Tim said distractedly. He could barely focus on anything for extended periods of time, so any time he could actually think was absolute gold.

Bruce sighed, coming around to stand by Tim with his arms folded. “Whatever it is you’re doing can wait until you’ve slept a few hours.”

“I’m not tired,” Tim said.

Bruce reached over and with the press of a button, had turned off the screen.

Tim saw red. He somehow found himself on his feet, the chair having been shoved back by him when he’d leapt to his feet.

“I told you _I’m not tired!_ Leave me _alone_ , Bruce,” Tim shouted. Distantly, he knew he was getting worked up over nothing, but a larger chunk of him was _livid_. “I’m _sick_ of you all telling me to go to sleep!”

“Tim, let’s take a breath and—” Bruce began, a worried look on his face.

“Stop _patronising_ me,” Tim yelled. His hands were clenched into fists. “You’re not my _father_ , Bruce. Quit acting like you give a shit about anything beyond your fucking _mission,_ let alone _me_.” Tim slammed his hands down on the bench, and a tray of mugs that had been sitting right on the edge jumped upwards, one of them smashing as it fell.

Startled at the crash, Tim took a step, but Bruce’s arm was a vice grip around his shoulder steering him away from the shards of ceramic. He shoved away from Bruce’s hold, stumbling against the chair.

“Tim, you don’t have shoes on, you’re going to cut up your feet,” Bruce said.

Tim wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t looked at Bruce in the eyes to deliver another retort, but Bruce glanced at something behind him, giving an almost imperceptible nod before he felt a prick in his upper arm.

* * *

Tim wasn’t out for long. He knew this because he was barely out at all, waking up to feel himself being carried to the Cave’s medbay. Bruce placed him down on the cot gently, arranging his limbs in a comfortable position.

“Thank you, Cass,” he murmured. “I had no idea he was…” He let out a sigh, and Tim knew, even without opening his eyes that Bruce was rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“He’s awake,” Cass said instead of responding.

She nudged Tim’s shoulder, and Tim opened his eyes groggily to find the two of them staring at him.

“You _tranq-ed_ me?” Tim said, struggling to sit up.

Cass only had to look at him for Tim to duck his head and mutter an apology.

“Tim,” Bruce said, voice gravelly. “Be honest with me. I won’t get mad. When was the last time you slept properly?”

“Wow,” Tim said, drawing out the word. “I can’t believe you do all this just to give me a lecture on _sleep_.”

Cass frowned at him. “Something’s _wrong_ ,” she said pointedly. “You’re obviously sleep deprived. We just don’t get _why_.”

“Why _what_?” Tim asked exasperatedly. He would’ve would’ve left the Cave by now had one of the people before him not been _Cass_.

“Why you aren’t sleeping.” Cass’ frown eased into a look of concern.

“She’s right,” Bruce added. “Your workload is lighter than it’s been in months. You aren’t overly obsessed with any video games. You don’t have schoolwork or company work that’s pressing enough to do late into the night—”

“I _can’t_ sleep, okay?” Tim burst out. He stood on wobbly legs, wanting to be on the same level as them. “I’ve _tried_. It just doesn’t _work.”_

“Tim, there are treatments for insomnia—”

“You don’t think I’ve tried those?” Tim ran a shaky hand through his hair. It probably did nothing to help his deranged look. “I’ve even taken like double the required dose for every sort of sedative we have, and _none_ of them work—”

That wasn’t supposed to have come out of his mouth. He cut himself off sharply.

Cass was looking at him with serious eyes, but Bruce had rushed off to the first aid kit. He returned with a syringe, not even looking at Tim as he plunged it into his arm to draw blood.

“Hey!” Tim yelped.

“You can complain once I’ve made sure you aren’t going to die from overdosing,” Bruce said grimly. His face was pale, and part of Tim was suddenly very guilty at having contributed to that.

Cass sat with him and questioned him about all sorts of things, making it feel less tedious than when Bruce or Alfred did it. He’d missed her. When he said so, Cass wrapped her arms around him tightly.

Bruce came back with a grim face.

Maybe Tim had been hanging around Jason for too long, because the first thing that came to mind to say was _am I gonna live, doc?_ which would definitely not have gone down well. Instead, he stayed quiet, looking at Bruce questioningly.

Bruce exhaled. “I think you were injected with something when they had you,” he said. “Do you remember anything? Maybe it was delivered orally, or as a gas.”

Honestly, the kidnapping hadn’t been that memorable. Tim had been caught, tied to a chair for a few hours as the kidnappers made him contact Batman, and had a few punches delivered to him. He’d been stuffed in a tiny room, with a bucket if he needed the bathroom, and a packaged Batburger the next day. 

He hadn’t eaten it, but he’d drank the bottled water. There was only so long you could go without water, and he had no way of knowing how long he’d need to go before he had access to it again. And besides, the bottle had been sealed.

“The bottle was sealed,” he said with a shrug. “I figured it was safe. It didn’t taste different.”

“They could’ve resealed it,” Cass said. “Steph showed me how.”

Tim turned to her. “Why?”

“To sneak alcohol into places,” she said simply, and Tim laughed.

Bruce blinked, and Tim watched as he visibly boxed away the knowledge to discuss with Steph and Cass at some later time. “Alright, that narrows it down. The results will be out in a few minutes, but until then I think you should lie down. You need to rest, Tim. The human body wasn’t meant to go this long without sleep.”

The inner teenager in Tim shrugged. “I’ve been doing alright so far.”

“Really,” Bruce said flatly. “You would call this past few days ‘alright’.” Without waiting for a response, he spun around and walked back over to the Batcomputer.

Tim sighed, leaning back.

Cass nudged his shoulder with hers. “One of the symptoms of sleep deprivation is moodiness,” she supplied. “Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

* * *

Tim had been given _strict_ instructions to not leave the Manor. He’d been told to stay upstairs as well but that order hadn’t been as emphasised as the first, so he considered that rule to be bendable. He could tell that Bruce was conflicted in taking both Cass and Damian out with him, but he needed the backup tonight.

“I won’t hesitate to call Dick,” he said. “Or one of your teammates.”

Tim could barely handle Bart while he was firing on all cylinders. He’d probably end up channelling his inner Damian and stabbing his friend if he came to babysit him. Kon was better, but Kon was busy. Actually, _everyone_ was busy. Tim didn’t want to bother them just because Bruce thought he couldn’t follow instructions and stay home.

“Don’t worry. There’s a Harry Potter marathon on tonight,” he said. “I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I don’t exist.”

Tim who had been awake for over a week was much more blunt than well-rested Tim, it turned out. Yesterday he’d told Jason his hair reminded Tim of the skunk from Bambi.

Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have a TV in your bedroom,” he said.

Tim’s eyes widened. “Tell me you’ve at least watched the Harry Potter movies,” he said.

“He fell asleep every time,” Cass said, walking into the room with a grin. “Dick told me he’s never gotten beyond half an hour into any of them without dozing off.”

“But that quote’s in the first half hour!” Tim turned to Bruce. “You have no excuse. We’re going to pump you full of whatever’s in me and make you sit through twenty-three hours of movie. Does this mean Damian’s never watched or read them, either?”

Whatever the relationship between him and the demon child from hell, he couldn’t handle the thought of him passing his eleventh birthday without humouring the thought of receiving a Hogwarts letter. 

Bruce cleared his throat. “I believe Dick tried,” he said. “We’re running late. Cassandra, I’ll meet you downstairs. Tim?”

Tim unfolded the blanket that was on the armchair and draped it around his shoulders like a cape. “I promised, didn’t I,” he said.

Bruce grunted, but as he passed Tim he bent down and pressed his lips to his hair before continuing on his way. Tim sat frozen in place for a while after he’d left.

* * *

Tim had, in all honesty, fully intended to keep his word and stay on the couch until they’d figured out a way to neutralise this concoction running through his veins. But that all changed when his phone buzzed beside him.

Tim lifted his head groggily. He’d put his phone on a customised Do Not Disturb, only allowing through certain notifications and calls. He hadn’t expected any tonight.

His phone glared holes into his skull in the dim lighting of the room and Tim winced as he looked at the screen.

Jason was calling, but he was calling Red Robin, not Tim.

Tim picked up. “Hood?” he said.

“You free?” Jason asked. There was a loud crash and the sound of gunshots. “’Cause I could use backup.”

Tim was already halfway standing before he remembered he was meant to stay in tonight. “Have you contacted the others?” he asked, running down to the Cave even as he spoke.

“They’re in a comm blackout.” An explosion this time.

“I’ll be there,” Tim said. Backup took priority over whatever promise he’d made to Bruce, and besides, he was fine. “I’m at the Cave, though. What’s your location?”

Jason let out a low curse as he gave Tim an address to one of the thousand abandoned warehouses littered around Gotham.

Tim snuck by the kitchen, where Alfred was readying post-patrol snacks. He didn’t have long before Alfred would check up on him discreetly, as he’d been doing all night, but it was enough time for him to pull on his costume and grab his bike.

“Brief me,” he said. He hadn’t driven his motorbike in days. It was exhilarating, the wind rushing past him as he zipped through the traffic.

“What’s there to brief?” Jason replied. “The bad guys are the ones shooting at us.” After a moment, he added, “All the intel said it was a handoff. Ended up being a lot bigger than that, and now I have a shittonne of drug dealers and their minions on my ass. And each other's.”

Tim, despite everything, found himself grinning.

“I’m here,” he said, pulling up to the building. He could hear the commotion from the other end.

Locking his bike, he ran forward, grappling in through a broken window on the second story. He had to kick someone down to make it in. Inside was like a pub brawl – there was no way of distinguishing between who was on what side of this fight.

Tim quickly disarmed the three men who were in the tiny room he’d entered, knocking them out and handcuffing them. Four more rushed up the stairs, and he swung forward on a beam supporting the second floor as he kicked the first person squarely in the shoulders, shoving him back into the other three.

The last one managed to dodge the domino effect, leaping around them with a gun aimed at where Tim had been. It really was too bad that Tim wasn’t there anymore.

He swept the thug’s legs out from under him, grabbing the gun as he fell over the railing and landed on his back. Tim leapt down the stairs, jumping over the three bodies and using his dwindling stock of tangler grenades to bind their hands.

According to Jason, there were still about ten of them standing. To make matters worse, this was probably one of the most convoluted abandoned warehouses Tim had ever been in.

“What’s the point of a _warehouse_ if all you’re gonna do is put walls in places?” he complained as two goons rushed at him.

There was gunfire on Jason’s end. There was always gunfire on Jason’s end. Tim was really going to have to teach him how to disarm people, at this rate. Tim couldn’t even make out most of Jason’s response because of the noise.

He’d knocked out one of his opponents, tossing another tangler grenade at their hands, when a third person rushed at him from behind, landing a punch for the first time that night at the side of his skull. Tim went down like a sack of potatoes, seeing black spots.

There was a ringing in his ears as he tried to claw his way back to his feet, but it was made difficult with the repeated blows from the two thugs standing above him. Tim attempted to sweep the smaller one off his feet, the move only being half effective as his opponent stumbled but regained his balance on the wall.

Tim had a gas pellet in his belt, but reaching it was proving to be difficult as kicks rained down on him.

And then the man – the third one, the one with the steel-toed boots – was yanked back ferociously. Milliseconds later the other one disappeared too. Tim slumped in relief at the sight of Jason.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting the arm Jason stretched down to yank him up.

His vision went out for a moment before righting itself again, ears ringing before regaining functioning, but not before he’d apparently lost his window of responding to something Jason had just said.

“Hey,” Jason demanded. “Focus. Follow my finger—”

“I don’t have a concussion, Jay,” Tim said, batting the hand away. “Is that everyone?”

Jason gave him a long look. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Thanks for coming.”

“Course,” Tim said. He fought to step properly. His torso was going to be a lovely rainbow in the morning. And Bruce was going to kill him. Alfred, too.

Jason looked at him sharply. “Why?” he asked. He narrowed his eyes. “Were you benched for injuries?”

“Not for injuries,” Tim said. Apparently his mouth ran when he was running on a week and a half of no sleep. “Haven’t been sleeping.”

Jason huffed a laugh. “Man, I always hated being benched for that. Fucking hypocrite. As if he gets anywhere near the amount of sleep he should.”

Tim didn’t tell him about the exact circumstances, and Jason didn’t pry. But when they neared the bike, he stuck his hand out for the keys, and Tim handed them over with minimal grumbling.

The ride back was much smoother than Jason’s driving usually was. He seemed to think that Tim would fall off if he took corners too sharply, and Tim’s continuous insults of _grandma_ and _wimp_ were met with threats to scratch up the paint job.

Bruce was standing in the middle of the Cave with arms crossed and a thunderous expression on his face.

“Oh, fuck,” Tim muttered, sliding off. “Can you start a fight with him so I don’t get yelled at?”

“I heard that, Tim,” Bruce said, even as Jason looked like he was contemplating it. “Jason, Alfred has cookies upstairs.”

It was as clear a bribe as any, and Tim gaped at Jason’s guilt-free half wave as he went into the showers to change.

“In my defence,” Tim began, looking anywhere but Bruce’s _I’m disappointed_ face, “Jay had no backup. I wasn’t about to leave him alone out there when I could’ve done something about it.”

Bruce sighed. Instead of saying anything, he walked over to the medbay, indicating with a jerk of his head for Tim to follow him.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just bruises.”

“You’re damn lucky that’s all you have,” Bruce said. Despite the words, his tone was even. Tim hated it more than if Bruce had yelled at him.

“I’m sorry I broke my promise,” he said. “But I’m not sorry for going out there.”

Bruce didn’t say anything, instead poking and prodding at Tim to check for any internal wounds. There was silence as he did so. Normally Tim would’ve been jumpy with the tension, but right now his head hurt too much for him to care.

Finally, Bruce handed him an icepack. “You went in there risking both your life and Jason’s,” he said. “You two may have gotten out of there mostly fine this time, but statistically speaking, the chances of that happening were slim to none. You know as well as I do what happens when someone doesn’t sleep for a week and a half. You could’ve gotten through the blackouts at the press of a few buttons, but you didn’t. You could’ve contacted Oracle. This drug in your system might be making you think you’re fine, but you’re really not, and your lack of critical thinking tonight just goes to prove that.”

Tim exhaled, eyes prickling.

“Go upstairs, Tim,” Bruce said, sounding as though he’d aged a decade in a single night.

Tim left the Cave without a word.

* * *

The headache that had begun the night he’d gone out hadn’t disappeared, and pain medication didn’t seem to be working. Tim lay with his feet dangling off the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was too high to see the tiny cracks in the paint – if there were any – but if he looked long enough, the black dots in his vision looked almost like constellations.

“Drake?”

Tim hummed, eyes still upward.

“Pennyworth wants to know if you’re hungry.”

“Nope,” Tim said. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t feel like drinking water, because drinking water made him feel sick, because he hadn’t eaten anything substantial in a bit too long, but he wasn’t hungry enough to eat. It was all a giant circle created entirely to make him feel like absolute shit.

Tim thought Damian would disappear now, but footsteps came closer.

“Pennyworth says you must eat regardless.”

Tim turned his head to the side as Damian placed a tray in the centre of the bed. “I’m _really_ not hungry,” he said.

Damian huffed. “Eating is not about hunger,” he said impatiently. “It’s about necessity.”

Tim blinked slowly at him. “Wow,” he said. “Wait till we take you to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Damian didn’t respond, instead bending down to pick something up behind him. Tim watched as Alfred the Cat was placed unceremoniously on the bed beside him.

He didn’t have the energy to ask, but Damian seemed to have understood his look. “He’s good at making inducing sleepiness,” he said.

Tim, had he been able to actually think beyond _‘aww’_ , would’ve probably said something now that would make Damian punch him, and then take his cat with him as he left the room. This sleep deprivation thing was actually pretty good for their relationship.

“Thanks,” he said instead. “That’s… I dunno how helpful he’ll be, though.”

And then he caught a glimpse at the food on the tray, and his eyebrows shot up. “Does Alfred realise that not all of us are Jason and Cass?”

Damian peered at the three sandwiches, two bananas, bowl of muesli and yogurt, four scones, and cup of tea. “I believe he wanted to give you ‘options’ in case something sparked your appetite.”

Tim sat up with a groan befitting a dying whale in a wildlife documentary. His head pounded as he sat up, and he had to sit there and breathe for a moment before the headrush disappeared. 

"Help me finish this so Alf isn't sad?" he asked. 

It being Alfred, Damian complied. 

* * *

Tim was crying. He didn’t even know why. He just wanted to _sleep_. He could feel someone stroking a hand through his hair, but it did nothing to help soothe him.

“We’ve almost got it, sweetheart,” Bruce was saying in a low voice. “It just needs a bit more time to be synthesised. Only thirty minutes. Just hold on for thirty minutes.”

Tim had no memory of where he was. His eyes were screwed shut, cheeks itching from dried tear tracks even as more covered them. Bruce – or, he assumed it was Bruce – would wipe them away from time to time.

Another voice, too distant to make out its owner, said something to Bruce. Tim didn’t process Bruce’s response, but suddenly the hand disappeared, and he realised that this was _worse_ , knowing that he was alone in this hazy hell.

* * *

The only reason Tim realised he’d fallen asleep was because he woke up. It was a strange sensation, to open his eyes and realise that he’d actually gone for an extended period of time without actively thinking, without needing to tell his brain to shut up, without forgetting that he needed to have his eyes shut in order to at least imitate sleep.

He was in his own bed, covers pulled up to his chin. That meant he hadn’t moved in his sleep at all, which was surprising. But considering the circumstances, all too understandable that he’d probably slept like the dead.

His mouth was, to use a phrase he’d once heard from Cissie, as dry as the devil’s armpit. Tim couldn’t be bothered gathering the energy to get up and grab the water he knew would be on the nightstand.

There was an IV line attached to his arm. Tim eyed it, wondering what the pros and cons of removing it would be. Just as he’d lifted his other hand to where it was stuck into his skin, Tim’s door opened.

Light from the hallway spilled in – it wasn’t morning, then. It was Dick, sticking his head in. When he saw Tim sitting up, his whole face changed.

“Tim,” he said on an exhale. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty,” Tim got out, and Dick immediately rushed to hand him a glass of water, helping to prop him upright so he didn’t choke.

“You’ve been out for like two days,” Dick said, rubbing his upper arm almost subconsciously.

The touch didn’t send ants crawling under his skin like it had towards the end when Tim had _really_ started losing his mind. He could barely even remember it, but there was a distinctive sensation about the whole ordeal that made him shiver.

“Never taking sleep for granted again,” Tim murmured, burrowing back into the pillows.

He didn’t see it, but he could hear Dick huffing a small laugh. “I hope you remember that next time we tell you to go to bed.”

There was movement in the other side of the bed, and Tim, despite oblivion calling to him, couldn’t help prying his eyes open to look. His eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight of Titus and Alfred the Cat there.

“Damian gave Bruce a whole speech on healing qualities or something behind animal companionship,” Dick said. His voice was fond.

It was strange to think that a few years ago, Damian would’ve probably been overjoyed at the thought of Tim potentially dying from lack of sleep. He didn’t know if it this change was even stranger or not, though.

The door opened again, and this time it was Bruce looking in, probably to see why Dick was taking so long. His face changed less than Dick's had when he saw Tim awake, but Tim hadn’t spent his whole Robin career creating a mental Batman dictionary to not be able to see the shift just as vividly.

“How do you feel, kiddo?” Bruce asked, walking inside.

Dick stood with a stretch, stepping past Bruce with a grace that Tim had always envied, but even more so now that he’d spent the last week or so stumbling around like a drunk toddler. Bruce took Dick’s place beside Tim, taking the glass of water from him when he was done and putting it back.

“Tired,” Tim said honestly. Before Bruce could say anything else, though, Tim added, “B, I’m sorry. I’ve been… terrible. For the last week-ish. I shouldn’t’ve yelled at you as much as I—”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Bruce interrupted. “And in a way, you were right. I should’ve noticed sooner. The fact that _Damian_ of all people realised first…” He exhaled.

“He even lent me his pets,” Tim said. "And I was hiding it as well as I could. It's not your fault. _I_ should've noticed it."

Bruce hummed, eyeing them. Tim thought he was just glad Damian hadn’t decided to bring Batcow in here as well. He exhaled, standing.

“Sleep,” he said. "We'll argue about whose fault it is later."

Tim was only too happy to comply. The sheets were soft and warm and welcoming in a way that he could only ever remember them being when he was absolutely dead on his feet after a long patrol. He felt the sensation of Bruce brushing his hair back from his face and repositioning the IV line, before he fell into the infinitely black abyss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! 
> 
> My card is in the series description if anyone wants to request a square (might take me a little while tho we're in the home stretch of this semester lol but I'll get to it =D), and feel free to come chat w me on [tumblr](https://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/)


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